The bus stop looked even duller than usual, the kind of place where news came to die. Rahul sat on the chipped bench beside Soma, both of them waiting for the bus and the next scrap of information about the Malhotra murder. The city was buzzing about it two days ago, but as always, people got bored fast.
Rahul stood, walked to the tea stall, and sifted through the stack of newspapers lying there. Page after page. Headline after headline. Nothing new. Not even a half-baked rumor.
He placed the papers down with a quiet sigh and stared at the table.
Three days since we met Malhotra's wife. And nothing. It's like everyone's pretending the case doesn't exist anymore. And Ananya… it's been a month. Not a single person talks about her. The police practically buried her case. If I don't get a big story soon, I'll never get access to her file. I'll be stuck as Rajesh forever.
Soma walked over, holding his tea like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
"Thinking a lot for someone staring at blank news sheets," he muttered.
"I was thinking about Malhotra's picture with that Bhopal rich guy… Kamat. Something feels off."
"I thought the same. But Devaraj sir only keeps screaming at us to just 'finish the work' and bring something fresh for tomorrow's headline."
Soma groaned. "Pain in the ass."
A bus pulled up to the stop, brakes screeching like a wounded animal. Soma nudged him.
"Come. Indrapuri won't come walking to us."
As they climbed into the bus, Rahul whispered to himself, unheard by Soma.
I need to finish this case fast. Then get permission for the pink file. Then… Ananya.
The bus rattled forward, leaving behind exhaust fumes and the hollow afternoon sun.
Indrapuri
The streets of Indrapuri greeted them with dust, honking scooters, and shops that seemed permanently tired. Soma shoved his hands into his pockets, walking with the slouched confidence of someone who'd navigated these neighborhoods a hundred times before.
"Tiwari's assistant said Malhotra visited a few places here. First one is Old Regal Cinema."
They walked through narrow lanes, stepping over broken tiles and avoiding stray dogs that watched them with ancient, knowing eyes. The area felt like it was holding on to life with weak fingers—buildings crumbling at the edges, paint peeling like dead skin, windows cracked and patched with tape.
When they finally reached Old Regal, the gates were locked. The boards were peeling. Posters faded to ghosts of their former colors—old films from the eighties, Amitabh Bachchan's face barely visible beneath layers of rain damage and sun bleach.
"Seriously?" Soma groaned. "We came all the way here for this?"
He stomped off to ask nearby shopkeepers, leaving Rahul leaning against the rusted gate.
Two beggar children kicked a torn red ball nearby. The ball bounced off a stone, rolled, and came to rest at Rahul's feet with a soft thud.
Rahul bent down and picked it up. Leather worn smooth. Stitching coming apart.
He looked up.
One of the boys stared at him from the corner of his eyes, expression unreadable. Not hostile. Not friendly. Just… watching. Like the child knew something Rahul didn't. Like the child could see through skin and bone into the dark places where Rahul kept his secrets.
Something in that look cracked open a door inside Rahul's mind. He didn't know what the memory was, but it rushed in like cold wind through a broken window.
A dim forest. Someone staring at him. A small shadow. A child standing in the doorway. Backlit. Features obscured. But the feeling—
Fear.
Not his fear. The child's fear. Of him.
Then nothing. The memory slammed shut like a door in a thunderstorm.
Rahul's fingers trembled. Sweat broke down his back despite the cool afternoon air. He tossed the ball back too fast, too hard. The boy caught it with both hands, stumbled back a step.
The kids ran after it and continued playing, laughing—high, carefree sounds that seemed impossible in this dying neighborhood.
Soma returned, half annoyed, half out of breath.
"This place only opens at night, apparently. Locals say it's just a cinema hall. Nothing special." He wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "But we'll check anyway. One paan shop owner said things get 'interesting' after dark. Wouldn't elaborate. Just gave me this look." Soma mimicked a knowing smirk.
Rahul barely heard him. His mind was still stuck in that blank, frightening memory that wasn't quite a memory—more like an echo of something terrible that hadn't happened yet. Or had already happened and he'd forgotten.
What is happening to me? Why can't I remember anything clearly?
You're remembering what you need to remember, the dark voice whispered. The rest is just noise. Focus. The case. The file. Survival. Everything else is weakness.
They spent the afternoon questioning shopkeepers who gave them nothing—careful words, suspicious glances, the universal language of people who'd learned that talking to reporters brought trouble. A tailor claimed he'd never heard of Malhotra. A vegetable vendor suddenly couldn't speak Hindi. A tea stall owner pretended to be deaf.
Fear hung in the air like smoke from burning garbage.
By the time they returned to Old Regal at nine o'clock, the sun had set and the neighborhood had transformed.
Night at Regal
The day passed in slow, useless questioning. By the time they returned at night, Old Regal looked like a different creature entirely.
Dozens of people stood outside. Fancy clothes. Shiny shoes. Perfume in the air—expensive French brands mixing with sweat and cigarette smoke and something else. Anticipation. Hunger.
Two ticket lines stretched out from different entrances.
Rahul frowned. "Why are people wearing party clothes for a dead cinema hall?"
Soma tugged at a man's sleeve. The man wore a tailored blazer despite the heat, gold watch glinting under the streetlight. "Bhai, what's with the two lines?"
"First time here?" The man smirked, gold tooth flashing. "One line is for the special floor. VIPs. People who act rich, live rich, show off rich." He gestured dismissively toward the other entrance. "Other line is for the normal movie."
"What's in the special floor?" Rahul asked, keeping his voice casual, curious but not too curious.
The man's eyes narrowed slightly, measuring them. "Party. Dance. Entertainment." He laughed—a wet, knowing sound. "Don't act like a kid. Everyone knows."
He walked off, joining the VIP line.
Soma rolled his eyes and tried to buy normal tickets from the main window. The ticket seller—an old man with paan-stained teeth—shook his head without looking up.
"Sold out."
"The show doesn't start for twenty minutes."
"Sold out means sold out."
Special-floor tickets cost three hundred rupees each. A fortune. More than Rahul's weekly salary at the newspaper.
Thankfully, a guy selling black tickets leaned against the wall like a villain from a cheap film—thin mustache, gold chain, eyes constantly scanning for police. Soma bargained furiously, voice low and urgent, gesturing wildly. The black ticket seller remained stone-faced, unmoved.
Finally, Soma came back with two stubs, face red with frustration.
"Four hundred each. Highway robbery." He shoved one into Rahul's hand. "Let's hope we don't die in there."
They entered through the VIP entrance.
A security guard—massive, arms like tree trunks—checked their tickets without looking at their faces. Inside, the lobby smelled of old velvet and new money. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling—probably fake crystal, but impressive in the dim lighting. Marble floors. Walls lined with movie posters from the golden age of Hindi cinema.
The cinema's upper floor was normal. Movie running—some new Bollywood romance nobody would remember in six months. Popcorn smell. Families. Children fidgeting in their seats. Teenagers on dates. The ordinary world where ordinary people lived ordinary lives.
But as they moved toward the stairs leading down, they saw security guiding certain people—the ones wearing expensive watches, the ones who walked with confidence, the ones who looked like they owned the world—downstairs.
Toward the basement.
Soma pretended to adjust his shirt and nodded toward the descent.
Rahul followed him, pulse quickening. Every instinct screaming this was dangerous. Every instinct also screaming he needed to see what was down there.
This is how you find truth, the dark voice whispered. In the places decent people refuse to look.
The air changed immediately as they descended.
Lights dim. Purple glow emanating from somewhere below. Bass thumping from speakers—not music from the movie upstairs, something else entirely. Club music. Western beats. Smoke thick in the air—cigarettes, beedis, and something sweeter. Hashish, probably.
A guard at the bottom checked people's hands for stamps—purple ink glowing under UV light. In the rush of people pushing forward, eager to get inside, Rahul and Soma slipped past unnoticed. The guard was too busy checking a woman's expensive handbag to notice two more bodies in the crowd.
They stepped through heavy curtains.
And stopped.
Stunned.
The entire underground hall was a different world.
Roulette tables spinning under neon lights—red, blue, green—casting strange shadows across faces twisted with greed and desperation. Ball clicking, clicking, clicking against wood. Croupiers in bow ties announcing numbers in bored voices.
Card games with men yelling and throwing cash onto green felt tables. Poker. Teen Patti. Blackjack. Hands moving fast, cards flashing, chips stacking and disappearing.
Dancers carrying trays of drinks—whiskey, vodka, rum—wearing clothes that left nothing to imagination. Moving between tables with practiced smiles that never reached their eyes.
Shady rooms behind curtains in the far corners. Figures moving behind translucent fabric. Shadows merging. Sounds Rahul didn't want to identify.
Stacks of notes changing hands. Hundreds. Thousands. Lakhs, probably. Money flowing like water, like it meant nothing, like the world outside where people starved didn't exist.
Laughter mixed with tension. Cigar smoke. Cologne. Sweat. Fear masked as confidence.
Women in evening gowns. Men in tailored suits. Gold everywhere—watches, chains, rings, teeth.
This wasn't just gambling. This was an empire.
Soma whispered, "This is insane…"
His voice barely audible over the noise—music thumping, people shouting, cards shuffling, chips clinking, glasses breaking somewhere in the back.
Rahul's eyes scanned the room, cataloging everything. Exit points. Security positions—three guards stationed at strategic points, one near each curtained room. Cameras—at least five visible, probably more hidden. The VIP section in the back, elevated platform, velvet ropes, even more exclusive.
This is where Malhotra came. This is where he lost money. This is where people who want things money can't buy come to trade.
A woman in a red dress walked past, perfume overwhelming, eyes glazed. High on something. She stumbled against Rahul, giggled without smiling, moved on.
Soma grabbed his arm. "We need to blend in. Buy a drink. Sit somewhere."
They moved toward the bar—actual mahogany, polished to a shine, bottles of imported alcohol lining the shelves. The bartender—young, bored—barely glanced at them.
"Two beers," Soma said.
"Hundred each."
Soma's eye twitched but he paid. They took their bottles and found a corner table near the roulette wheel, close enough to observe but far enough not to draw attention.
A man at the roulette table—late forties, expensive suit, sweat staining his collar—placed five thousand rupees on red. Ball spun. Clicked. Settled on black. The man's face crumpled. He cursed, slammed his fist on the table. The croupier swept away his chips without emotion.
"Malhotra would've been here," Soma murmured, eyes scanning the crowd. "Probably at that poker table."
The poker table was in the center—round, green felt worn smooth by countless hands, six players seated around it. One of them wore sunglasses despite the dim lighting. Another smoked a cigar thick as a man's thumb. The dealer—a woman in her thirties, hard eyes, efficient hands—dealt cards with mechanical precision.
Rahul watched the players. Their faces. Their tells. The way one man's finger tapped when he had a good hand. The way another adjusted his collar when he was bluffing.
This is where people reveal themselves. Not in churches or temples or police stations. Here. Where money and vice strip away pretense.
"We need to talk to someone," Soma said. "Someone who knew Malhotra. Someone who'll actually talk."
"Nobody here will talk to reporters."
"Then we don't say we're reporters." Soma finished his beer in three long swallows. "Follow my lead."
He stood, walked toward the poker table with the confidence of someone who'd done this before. Rahul followed, heart pounding, every muscle tight with anticipation and fear.